Song Lyrics

Who the f*ck is this? Paging me at 5:46
In the morning, crack of dawn and
Now I'm yawning, wipe the cold out my eye
See who's this paging me and why?
It's my nigga, Pop, from the barbershop
Told me he was in the gambling spot and heard the intricate plot
Of niggas wanna stick me like flypaper, neighbor
Slow down love, please chill, drop the caper

Remember them niggas from the hill up in Brownsville
That you rolled dice with, smoked blunts and got nice with?

Yeah my nigga Fame up in Prospect
Nah them my niggas nah love wouldn't disrespect

I didn't say them, they schooled me to some niggas
That you knew from back when, when you was clocking minor figures
Now they heard you're blowing up like nitro
And they wanna stick the knife through your windpipe slow
So, thank Fame for warning me 'cause now I'm warning you
I got the MAC, nigga tell me what you gonna do

Damn, niggas wanna stick me for my paper
Damn, niggas wanna stick me for my paper
Damn, niggas wanna stick me for my paper
Damn, niggas wanna stick me for my paper

They heard about the Rolex's and the Lexus
With the Texas license plates out of state
They heard about the pounds you got down in Georgetown
And they heard you got half of Virginia locked down
They even heard about the crib you bought your moms out in Florida
The Fifth Corridor

Call the coroner!
There's gonna be a lot of slow singing and flower bringing
If my burglar alarm starts ringing
What ya think all the guns is for?
All-purpose war, got the Rottweilers by the door
And I feed 'em gunpowder, so they can devour
The criminals trying to drop my decimals
Damn, niggas wanna stick me for my cream
And it ain't a dream, things ain't always what it seem
It's the ones that smoke blunts with ya, see your picture
Now they wanna grab they guns and come and get ya
Bet ya Biggie won't slip
I got the Calico with the Black Talons loaded in the clip
So I can rip through the ligaments
Put the fuckers in a bad predicament, where all the foul niggas went
Touch my cheddar, feel my Beretta
Buck! What I'ma hit you with you motherfuckers better duck
I bring pain, bloodstains on what remains
Of his jacket, he had a gun he shoulda packed it
Cocked it, extra clips in my pocket
So I can reload and explode on you rasshole
I f*ck around and get hardcore
C-4 to your door, no beef no more nigga
Feel the rough, scandalous
The more weed smoke I puff, the more dangerous
I don't give a f*ck about you or your weak crew
What you gonna do when Big Poppa comes for you?
I'm not running, nigga I bust my gun and
Hold on, I hear somebody coming

(C'mon motherfucker) I'm only comin' to pass the gat
(Just bring your motherfuckin' ass on, come on)
Are we gettin' close, huh?
(It's right over here)
Are you sure this Biggie Smalls crib man?
(Yeah I'm sure motherfucker, c'mon!)
Ahh f*ck, it better be his motherfuckin' house
F*ck right here
This better be this motherfucker's house
(Oh shit!) What, what's wrong?
(What's that red dot on your head man!)
What red dot?
Oh shit!
You got a red dot on your head too!

Ohh shit!

Burt F Bacharach, Hal David, Osten S Harvey, Christopher Wallace

The duration of Warning [Club Mix] is 3:40 minutes and seconds.